


The Last Kinslayer

by HASA_Archivist



Category: The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: General, Other - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-14
Updated: 2015-04-14
Packaged: 2018-03-22 20:56:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 821
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3743290
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HASA_Archivist/pseuds/HASA_Archivist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Maglor talks about himself</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Last Kinslayer

**Author's Note:**

> Note from the HASA Transition Team: This story was originally archived at [HASA](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Henneth_Ann%C3%BBn_Story_Archive), which closed in February 2015. To preserve the archive, we began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in February 2015. We posted announcements about the move, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this author, please contact The HASA Transition Team using the e-mail address on the [HASA collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/hasa/profile).

****

"And it is told of Maglor that he could not endure the pain with which the Silmaril tormented him; and he cast it at last into the Sea, and thereafter he wandered ever upon the shores, singing in pain and regret beside the waves."

****

But then again it is also told that I never came back among the people of the Elves, so how would they know what I did? Perhaps I shall take this opportunity to tell you my story. I do not suppose that I will ever meet a mortal again, and I think I should not like to be forgotten, once I am gone forever from Middle-earth.

In six centuries I lost my grandfather, my father, my brothers, one half-uncle and eight half-cousins to Mandos. My wife did not love me enough to come with me, as my mother failed my father when he needed her most, so I had plenty of things to regret. One thing I do not regret is fulfilling my oath. I was initially reluctant to reclaim the Silmarils from Eönwë. My brother had to remind me of the perfidy of the Valar before I would agree to his plan, but once the deed was done I was glad. The fire of my Silmaril burned me, but the pain was nothing compared with the pain of my wife's rejection, which in turn paled into insignificance next to the pain of my father's and my brothers' deaths. My oath can drive me no longer and I am free, although the only road home for me lies through death and the Halls of Mandos, and I cannot reach the end of that road until the Breaking of the World.

You ask me why I stayed in Middle-earth when everyone I cared about is dead and the lands I defended for so long are drowned beneath the waves - I was not ready to die. You ask why I sing when there is no one left to listen - I sing for myself, to remind me of that which once was. And you ask me if I number the Kinslayings among my regrets. Why should I answer to you, a mortal, when I do not answer to the Valar themselves? 

Yet I shall tell you. I regret that the Kinslayings were necessary, but I would not change what I did. Not swearing the oath, not slaughtering the Teleri at Alqualondë. Why would I? They were Elves and Mandos could not keep them if they did not wish it. I do regret Doriath and Sirion, because they cost me five of my brothers. The Sindar should have restored the Silmaril to us when we asked for it. Stealing from a thief does not give you the right to keep what you have stolen, nor does it make it an heirloom of your family. Oh, I know that Beren lost his hand in pursuit of the Silmaril, but so did my brother, and Beren did not go through decades of torture first. Beren and Lúthien died, you say. I have not forgotten. I have also not forgotten that they were restored to life in Middle-earth because of the pity of Mandos. My brothers were just as brave; their deeds too were of surpassing valour, but Mandos cursed them. 

I have watched you Men, and the Elves that linger here, for five ages now from the shores of the Sundering Sea. Few have ever noticed me watching, even the Elves who took the straight road in ever diminishing numbers as the ages passed. Six thousand years have gone by since my cousin Galadriel left her husband behind on this hither shore; they will not meet again. I saw my nephew's folly turn into disaster, precipitating the tragedy of my foster-son's people and their fallen isle, their dreadful deeds making me look no worse than a naughty child in comparison. I saw their new kingdoms in Middle-earth rise and fall twice, the second fall scattering the remains of the Númenorian people beyond recall. 

With every age comes a new weapon. The destruction in this, the Sixth Age, is beyond anything I could have imagined, even in the midst of the Battle of Sudden Flame or the Battle of Unnumbered Tears. Now the age draws to a close; I have no wish to contemplate the Seventh. I doubt not that one day you mortals will fulfil Morgoth Bauglir's design and destroy your entire race, perhaps even Arda itself. I am thankful I shall not be here to witness it.

I know that I will die soon, for Eru has been merciful at last and shown me a vision of my end in a dream. It will be an appropriate enough way for the last son of Fëanor to leave these shores; fire will consume me as it did my father and my brother before me, and I shall be grateful that it is over.


End file.
